In the Long Run

When I learned that my friend had come home from the hospital with her new baby, I called her and offered to take in some dinner that night at 6 PM.

Big Guy was leaving the next day on a trip, but generously volunteered to help me make lasagna. We chatted as he grated cheese, and I prepared the sauce. We made plans to watch “24” together later that night, provided that I had watched one episode on my own by then to catch up to the same point he was in the series. “Why don’t I watch it while the lasagna is baking?” I said, as we completed preparing the dinner. “Good idea,” he agreed, and turned on the oven for me. I slipped the pans into the oven, and I thought I checked the temperature to make sure it was correct. Then I hurried downstairs to the DVD where Jack Bauer and the rest of CTU were waiting to enthrall me.

Each episode of 24 usually contains these similar plots and dialogue: Jack races against the clock to prevent disaster to an unsuspecting public, he makes split-second decisions in life-threatening situations, he enlists the aid of reluctant co-workers in his renegade actions, and he inevitably mutters a frustrated and disgruntled “Fine!” when responding to directions or advice with which he does not agree. I already know the predicable plot interface, but still love to watch the final dressed-up product. This day was no different, and I was soon engrossed in the suspenseful drama.

Checking my watch when the episode was over, I realized I was nearly out of time. I was due at my friend’s house in less than...twenty-four minutes. I raced up the stairs and was horrified to smell burning cheese…. I gasped when I saw that the oven temperature was set at 450, one hundred degrees hotter than it should have been! The top of the lasagna was bubbling and blackish, and looked like hard molded plastic. I panicked, then calmed myself, and thought quickly. How could I salvage this meal? “Big Guy,” I yelled. “Please come here, and help me!” Big Guy appeared, and I tersely barked out orders. “Pull this burned layer off the top of the casserole while I make more sauce!” He looked doubtful.

“Fine!” I muttered, and suddenly, I became Jack Bauer, and I knew, confidently, that this mission would have a successful ending. “I’ll scrape the charred cheese, and you grate more mozzarella!” Lives are depending on us! I thought to myself, as I flew around the kitchen mixing sauce and heating leftover pasta.

“There’s not enough time,” Big Guy worried. “There has to be. We have no choice,” I encouraged. I left the bottom layers of edible lasagna intact, and carefully, but swiftly, added another layer of pasta, sauce and cheese. I shoved the whole pan under the oven broiler for four minutes while I heated French bread in the microwave oven. I grabbed a tossed salad and some dressing from the refrigerator, put the bread and lasagna in a cardboard box, turned off the oven, and dashed out the door, just under the wire, at two minutes to six.

Crisis averted. The free world, or rather, my friend and her family, never even suspected the ruin that had been moments from their door. Jack Bauer, the lessons you have taught me….